


The Beginning

by am_bellanoire



Series: The Weekend Trilogy [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, First Time, Infidelity, Underground Dueling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 11:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14019441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/am_bellanoire
Summary: When I laid eyes on her, the plan was to conquer, to consume, and devour. Little did I know, she planned to do the very same to me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to The Weekend. Told from Bella's pov.

_**The Beginning** _

**I**

_"Don't be afraid of the way you feel..."_ \- Surrender, Kut Klose

* * *

She grew up in a mansion. A grand expanse of alabaster and marble, that breathed with wards and enchantments, a staff of eagerly attentive House Elves. Each and every one of her wildest whims and fancies catered to as if she were the Minister for Magic. For seven years she attended Hogwarts, and excelled beyond the academic expectations of nearly everyone who came into contact with the savage force of nature with the purest blood, unruly black curls, a wicked tongue, and a feral passion that devoured chaos, using it as fuel to set a blazing fire to any and every thing that thought to tame her, and delightfully watched it all burn to ashes at her feet.

But like most fairy tales, it was a time that was rife with fantasy. A time where she thought nothing in any capacity could touch her or affect her. Nothing outside the realm of the the world she had constructed around herself – a world in which everyone bowed, submitted to her and she was the undisputed queen of endless nights of carnal revelry and lawless abandon.

It all came to halt on its axis when she was forced to marry a wizard whose blood, though almost as pure as hers, she could never love. And then the weight of reality fell upon her shoulders, commanding her to accept that her existence had never fully belonged to her. No, she had won the genetic lottery as far as Galleons, power, and prestige went, but she was never the sole possessor of her own destiny...

Sometimes, that girl seems like she existed in another lifetime, but I always remember her well. So too do I remember the ultimate answer to the unasked demand life tried to shove her way, an eventual response that to this day brings a smile of fierce pride to my face. A resounding 'fuck you'. Yes, I married. Yes, I inherited my millions in the vaults. But I refused to bow, I refused to concede defeat. I refused to put my life into the hands of anyone but myself. Well, no, that is not entirely true. But thinking back on it now, the decision I made nearly twenty years ago was the only way I can say made it possible for me to take back what was mine, what remains mine.

His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle, his half blood status evident in his name. The first and last being quite Muggle. The second, a testament to the formerly renowned Gaunt family of which his mother, one Merope had always been an outcast for an endless list of reasons. None of that mattered to me though. I was a twenty year old newlywed, seeing no way out of the chains that bound me to some duty I had never volunteered for. He saved me. And he never knew it. Or at least, I don't think he did. He had always had this reserve about him. One in which no one was ever really sure whether he was pleased or not. But you knew when you had disappointed or angered him and as masterful of a duelist he was, it was something you quickly learned never to do more than once.

I had been rather pathetic, wandering into the dark dueling hall in Diagon Alley. It was a shady place, one proper pureblood daughters were taught to avoid like the plague, but it had always sung to me like a siren's song. It was as if I could feel all that power, that knowledge, that lightning force seeping through the brick walls. Morsmordre. The name tickled my tongue whenever I spoke it aloud. Even as I child, shopping for my school things, I had made it my business to pass it once or twice because that feeling, it was intoxicating, addicting. Knowing that what I would eventually need most in the world was just there, waiting for me to seize it. And of course, I could have entered, if I were foolishly Gryffindor enough to do so. But even back then, I think I knew I was not yet ready.

At twenty, I was as headstrong as I am now, just as passionate and tumultuous as I always have been. But I thought I was defeated. I really was not, but the thing about convincing oneself that they are something they aren't, it's like poison. A slow, sneaky poison that you might not have realized you accidentally ingested until your last breath is rattling out of you. He helped me find the antidote that had always been at arms reach. Helped me realize that though I fancied myself bent, I was far from broken.

The day came, some rather uneventful day when I found myself meandering through the streets of Diagon Alley. Perhaps I was looking for an escape but had not admitted that truth to myself as I window shopped and tried to be pleased by both the reverent and unabashedly envious gazes that followed in my wake. I felt in then, that familiar pulse that had quickened within me when I purposely tarried too close to the dueling hall. That forbidden spell that was more compelling than my next breath. This time, I allowed my feet to take me where my very soul had always felt an affinity.

I was equally afraid and captivated, but I did not allow either emotion to show on my usually expressive face. I reached deep down to that well of aristocratic masks that had been at my disposal since I drew my first breath and wailed a battle cry so intense, my name was decided instantaneously. Bellatrix. The third brightest star in the constellation Orion. A name that meant 'warrior'. Fitting, to be sure, and I knew I needed to be just that. So I kept my expression remote, slightly bored, though my eyes, previously dimmed following my theatrically ostentatious wedding some months prior, I could feel them spark to their fervent flame. And I think that was all the confirmation Tom Riddle needed when he metaphorically took me by the hand and led me to what fate had preordained.

It was dark. The smell of stale perspiration permeated the tension charged air. The grunts and groans of exertion, expletives uttered in both defeat and triumph met my ears. The rousing, provocative feeling that I had felt those years ago whenever I walked past the place's exterior increased tenfold and I think I uttered a moan of satisfaction.

It was home.

He trained me himself. I suppose he saw something in me, even as green as I was. As raw as I was. See, I thought brute strength, and a catalog of spells, hexes, and curses stored in my mental vault could easily win me every duel. I was naive in the sense that I thought myself unbeatable, invincible in battle. But he showed me, in a painfully efficient manner that I had loads to learn. Emotions have always been my Achilles heel. As a child, I was prone to violent, tempestuous tantrums which like a storm exposed to the perfect conditions, gradually worsened with age. He showed me how to use my emotions, not to conceal them as my parents and professors tried to futilely drill into me. Use them to my advantage. As much as they were a weakness, they were the powerhouse in which my stamina and prowess resided. Dueling became the outlet I needed to express myself - all of my rage, frustration, pain, even happiness drawn out in a dazzling show of colored beams that could frighten, hurt, maim, or more if I wanted. When I wanted.

For fifteen years, he was my mentor, more of a father than the one who had sired me, the sole person who kept me grounded whenever my own impassioned fervor defied gravity, and when he died, well I think I lost a piece of myself I never knew existed until then. He left me a final parting gift though, Riddle did, when he bequeathed the ownership of Morsmordre to me in his will.

And mine it is. It is funny how fate works, for just as I assumed in my youth, I am queen. Queen of this partial underground world in which people from all corners of the earth come to better themselves in the art of dueling, under my ever watchful eye, by the walnut, dragon heart string cored wand ever present in my skilled hand. My staff, a small group of duelists who have my nearly unattainable trust, are my court. There are four. Three wizards and one witch. Lucius Malfoy. Bartemius Crouch, the second. Antonin Dolohov. Alecto Carrow. I collected them over the years. Trained them, groomed them, molded them to my liking. All of them starting at the bottom of the barrel, mere crabs, crawling their way to the top. They were the best of the best as far as duelists go. After me and me, after him. With them, I rule this isolated kingdom of sweat, blood, and tears, and nothing that is, ever was, or ever shall be can dethrone me.

The fucking idiots.

From where I stand, I can see the two troll brained fools facing each other, the air around them crackling with ego and testosterone and whatever else that makes males such a bloody hazard to themselves, brewing into a dastardly cocktail, a simmering potion left unattended to boil over. I haven't the time or the patience for full grown wizards acting like prepubescent children in any ordinary setting. I have a negative seventy tolerance for it happening anywhere near Morsmordre.

The only one allowed to lose their temper in my establishment is me. It is an unwritten rule and while I have never been the sort to abide by orders, to be told what I can and cannot do, I expect anyone who comes here to train to follow them. That, or pay a price no amount of Galleons could ever cover.

The two are not regulars, but they aren't new either. I have seen the both of them around before which means they should know how things are run here. I operate on a one warning system. If I have to tell you twice, that is two times too many. And both have already, in separate situations, been given their one pass. Therefore it is now time to dispose of the rubbish.

I can feel the gazes of my trusted four on me without even having to look. The looks vary between amusement and poorly concealed excitement. Like sharks, they can detect a drop of fresh blood in an endless ocean. They know me well and I have no plans to disappoint. There is nothing that displaces respect faster than not making good on what you say you will do. I never make promises I don't intend to keep. It simply has never been in my nature.

I stride toward the squabbling pair, my lips curling into a sneer of disdain. They do not notice me at first, much like prey who have unknowingly strayed too close to an apex predator until it is far too late. The poor little lambs, and lamb has always been my favorite meal to wolf down.

"I thought I made it quite clear what is and is _not_ allowed in my hall," my voice is hardly more than a whispered growl, but like smoke, it circles, enveloping the two, slowly but effectively choking them into silence, "Seeing as how I do not like to repeat myself, take whatever it is out. Side. Now."

It is easy to tune out the futile explanations, the blame gaming, the it wasn't me it was hims, and proceed to escort them out of Morsmordre without having to utter another word. Both are taller than me, drastically outweigh me, but none of that matters when pitted against magical skill and I know neither would be stupid enough to challenge me, intentionally or accidentally. My wand is in my hand out of habit, but I know I won't have to use it.

The streets of Diagon Alley are abuzz with midday shoppers who are easily distracted from their mundane tasks by the sight of the two wizards who now resume their pissing contest as the realization of more eyes on them settle in. Fucking egos. It temporarily masks cowardice with an air of bravado that means absolutely nothing where it should count and it does nothing but incense me further. Not only have these two arseholes disrespected my business, they plan to continue the disrespect in the form of putting on a show like a pair of common Muggle circus performers.

I think not.

Not all situations call for a heavy hand. Strategy is just as strong as force in its own right and a change of tactics can easily render an opponent - or in this case two idiots - just as incapacited as a Stunner. It is simple. You target weakness and use it to aid you in victory. And these wizards standing on either side of me, panting like racing Abraxans, and neither one yet to cast a spell though their wands were brandished, their weakness is their egos and I plan to break them into a thousand pieces and scatter those pieces over the crowd the two have managed to attract.

I feel a pair of eyes watching me from not far off. And yes, there are many pairs of eyes locked on the spectacle in front of the hall. But this is different. I turn then, as if compelled and my own dark, uncomprimising gaze lands on a pair of hazels that stand out from the crowd. It isn't the color that does it either, it is the intensity in them, the depth of their regard. Even across the distance, I can identify an untapped well brimming with thirst, curiosity, adoration, and something akin to arousal. The slight flush to the peach colored cheeks and the part between moistened pink lips furthers affirms this. And her eyes never leave mine.

She likes what she sees.

I have an audience of my own I realize and so I reach into my bag of masks and chose the one of pureblood regality. The one of arrogance and ancestral might and I tear into the two cretins, chastising them like two children in such a fashion that would have made old Minerva McGonagall Slytherin green with envy. I knock them down to their knees without having to raise a hand and the bruising shots to their egos brings me so much satisfaction, I want to cackle.

I have impressed my little hazel eyed spectator too. But as the crowd begins to disperse and the two dismissed wizards make a hasty exit from my property, I decide my performance is far from concluded. Oh no, I plan to up the ante just a bit, unable to deny my own curiosity at the witch who has yet to move from the spot she occupies.

I allow my gaze to baldly trail up and down the length of her body before back to her almost glassy eyes. I arch a brow and smirk wickedly before slowly, teasingly turning and indolently stroll back into the hall. I can still feel her, watching me and I throw a little switch to my gait, baiting her further. I want her to follow and I know she will.

Business has resumed as usual after the minor disturbance. Everyone knows better than to stand idle here even without my presence. From my periphery, I see Alecto approach me. The only other female dueling master here, she had been my third recruitment and I taught her everything she knows. A more than decent sparring partner and equally good for more sordid activities, she is my favorite after Barty Jr.

"No trouble, I trust?" she drawls in a would be casual tone had I not known her so well. Her natural voice is pitched higher than mine but not annoyingly so and despite the slightly nasal timbre, there is a subtle gruffness that laces her words that I sometimes find appealing.

I tilt my head, allow my eyes to roll over to her, my expression one of amusement, "None at all. But you may let both Barty and Malfoy know they now have an hour of unoccupied time on Wednesdays."

Her grin bears a dragonish resemblance and she nods, "I'll be sure to."

In rather predictable fashion, I feel her spider like fingers move to the small of my back. With a scoff, I reflexively reach out and grasp her wrist, roughly enough that it draws a grunt of pain from her.

"Ah, ah, ah," I murmur, with a simpering grin, my tone low but edged with a warning, "Hands to yourself, dearie." On one hand, I might be turned on by her boldness, on the other, I do not tolerate insubordination from my duelists and she knows this. Like a toddler, I suppose she wants to test her limits. Understandable but not allowed unless I say so, and my grip tightens to emphasize the point.

The hiss and wince I get in return are all the response I need and I release her. To assure her that no irreperable damage between the two of us has been done, I tuck a lock of her straight dark hair which is somehow slipped from its bun behind her ear in a patronizing display of gentleness.

"Hello?"

Both Alecto and I turn in tandem to see the witch who has entered the hall. Its her, the one from out in alley. Standing in the midst of my establishment, she appears even more stricken than she did outside, but she is still watching me with that same hungry stare.

"Welcome to Morsmordre," Alecto steps forward, all business, discreetly drawing her angrily bruised wrist behind her back, "Do you have an appointment?"

"I-I erm, no I don't actually," the witch stammers, her cheeks reddening as those hazel eyes flit back and forth between the pair of us.

I make my move then, placing a hand on my employees shoulder. "I'll take care of this. Leave us."

With a nod, Alecto steps off and does as bidden. Once we are alone, I turn my attention back in the witch. Her somewhat girlish though symmetrical facial features, bushy brown hair tied back into a tail, the way she seems unsure of whether she should stay or flee. She is rocking on the balls of feet and I don't think she realizes she's doing this. There is a womanly curvature to her frame and the makings of laugh and smile lines upon closer inspection of her face that belies her age, somewhere late twenties. And there is a small gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand.

"And how may help you Mrs...?"

"Granger," the witch responds, licking her lips in a nervous fashion, "Just Granger."

"Mrs Granger, what may I-"

"No Mrs. Just Granger," she says again, with conviction that takes me aback. Clearly the title is a touchy subject to broach. I know the feeling well, and the shudder that passes through is almost a reflex whenever someone addresses me as 'Madam Lestrange'. But her qualms on her marital status are none of my concern.

"Right. _Just_ Granger. What do you want?" I no longer bother with the pleasantries. Again, I do not like to repeat myself.

She stops fidgeting then and her body stills. While the nervousness is still evident in her expression it is now combating what I had read on her face out in the alley. That intensity. It makes my own brows furrow as an unfamiliar sensation attempts to fill me. Unsurety. I do not like to feel unsure about anything. And the vibes this witch are all but throwing my way, silently begging me to catch them, well I am not sure whether I should duck or engage.

"I want to train with you," she says finally, and there is an underlying eagerness in her tone that makes me think of a girl in the front row of every class on her too full school schedule, hand raised in earnest to answer queries her professors have yet to fully articulate, "I want _you_ to train me."

The word 'train' seems to take on a double, unspoken meaning as it falls from her mouth and my eyes narrow as I try to decipher what is concealed in code. I don't usually take the new ones and by Just Granger's stance I can tell she has never properly dueled a day in her life. Has never had to fight for anything. I haven't the patience for that sort. But something else overpowers the 'no' poised at the tip of my tongue. Something else that brings a beaming smile of unadulterated joy to the bushy haired witch's face that I instantly store to memory.

"Yes. I'll train you."


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Beginning** _

**II**

I've learned to live with no regrets. Better yet, the only things I do regret are the things that I haven't yet done. It's become something of a mantra by which I define my life. Take risks, be crazy, make stupid mistakes because this moment, right here and now, is the oldest I've ever been and the youngest I'll ever be again. I do not regret marrying. I could never regret taking ownership of Morsmordre. I don't regret not seeing my parents for over twenty years. I don't even regret not speaking to one of my sisters for nearly that long. I take responsibility for my actions. My choices. I have accepted the consequences for everything I have ever done. But for the first time, maybe in my life, I think I realize that I am starting to regret something and that something would be agreeing to train Hermione Granger.

It isn't that there is much of a challenge to it. Her dueling skills are dismal, true, and perhaps that is an exaggeration but I will give her the due credit of being remarkably clever. To the point where had we attended Hogwarts together, she just might have given me a run for my Galleons. Only if, in this hypothetical scenario, the professors weren't the least bit biased towards her due to the fact that she bore the facade of a goody two shoes quite well. But I knew it to be just that, a facade, because no honest to Merlin goody two shoes could ever unapologetically stare at someone the way she does.

She stares at me. Like I'm some four headed dragon in a freakshow that she can't decide whether she wants to pet or tuck tail and run from. Or like she's an overly obsessed fan at a Weird Sisters concert who just learned they had been selected to go up on stage and sing along with Myron bloody Wagtail, and fucking fainted before they could even make it halfway. On a raunchier note, it's almost as if she can see through my clothes. And while I've never been the modest sort, I admit once or twice I might have double checked to ensure my attire hadn't suffered some spontaneous malfunction. Just because.

Most laughably, she fancies herself discreet about it, which is evident in the way her cheeks go a pretty pink whenever I catch her in the act. Yes, sometimes I do play along. But who wouldn't with someone making themselves so obvious? That would basically be like throwing a Quaffle directly to a Chaser and daring them not to sodding catch it. And before dueling, during my Hogwarts years, I had been a damn good Quidditch player. A saucy smirk here, a well timed wink there, a casual toss of my curls and I reduce her to that sputtering, awkward little creature that first entered Morsmordre, looking for all intents and purposes - which are not entirely unfounded - as if she had entered a snake pit.

Until of course, I turn around and I can once again feel the heat of her shameless gaze on my back. For the life of me I can't figure out what it is she wants. Well, yes, I know what she wants. Me, obviously. But in what capacity? Usually those with nothing but a quick, filthy shag in a broom cupboard in mind are far more wanton and aggressive about it. And I wish she would be, if only so she could take my resulting rejection like a big girl, and just be done with it all.

I don't do Gryffindors.

Not to mention the fact that she's Muggleborn. And no, we haven't sit and discussed our respective blood statuses over tea and treacle. I can tell by the clothes she wears. Those sweatpant things - strange name - and multi-colored rubber soled shoes. Hardly flattering, but she doesn't seem uncomfortable in them. I prefer dragon hide and Erumpent leather when I duel.

While I have since shed the outdated purist attitudes I was brought up on, every so often that old family motto, more like a decree, _Toujours Pur_ , resurfaces like the fragmented memory of a recurring dream, and I want to shred those stupid Muggle pants and shoes like confetti and tell her to put on some damned robes like a real witch.

When anyone begins to train at Morsmordre, before wands are drawn and spells are cast, regardless of how good of a duelist they may think they are, I require three introductory sessions, each a half hour long so they may observe how a proper duel is supposed to look and go over safety measures. Liability waivers are signed with a Black Quill. Then they are partnered off with a fellow trainee to assess skill level. Malfoy and Dolohov train with the beginners. Alecto and Barty, the intermediates. And yours truly trains those who are deemed advanced enough. Most duelists come to the hall at least three or four times a week. Granger though, she works at the Ministry Monday through Friday so she is given the dual privilege of not only training with me as a beginner, but doing so on the weekend.

She is punctual, those first three weeks, I'll give her that. In fact, the only issues I have with her are those hideous sweatpants and the way her eyes perversely follow my every move. And Merlin do those hazels flare, that honeyed brown stare glazed over, as she watches me spar with Dolohov the first Saturday, Malfoy on the second, and both Barty and Alecto on the third. She's supposed to be observing, taking mental notes on each duel, guaging our movements and spell choices and the effects of them. But instead, she optically gorges herself on me and even though it is fun to bait her a bit, it frustrates and confuses me equally as I try to sniff out her motives.

On the fourth Saturday, I expect her to balk when it comes time to sign the liability form. Most aren't too eager to have the backs of their hands sliced open to sign their names in their own blood. I play no games when it comes to that though. I will not have inquiries or legalities anywhere near my place of business. Dueling is risky and if you just so happen to be stupid enough to allow yourself to be hexed within an inch of your life, I'll not be the one you blame even if I am the one casting said hex.

She doesn't flinch however and I admit that I'm slightly impressed by this. Even some of the wizards grit their teeth or let out some noise of pain or obscene complaint as they sign. Not her though.

When all of that is out of the way, it's time for her and I to spar, and truthfully the thought of putting her on her arse is an exciting one.

"On your feet Granger, wand at the ready," I announce brusquely, striding toward her, my own wand drawn. She jumps up immediately and I can't help but smirk, thinking yet again of how eager a student she must have been in her Hogwarts days. I had never been a hand raiser myself, I just always had an answer for everything and decidedly gave it whether a professor called on me or not.

We face each other across the mat and all the noise around us seems to fade into some garbled background. Its just the two of us, it feels like, and for some reason that makes my smirk widen. I look her up and down as she stands, clutching her wand tightly in her right fist.

"Nervous?" I whisper, a teasing lilt to the word. She shakes her head, her pink tongue darting out to moisten her lips.

"Not really." A blatant lie, obviously, as she's positively trembling. She knows she could very well be in a world of hurt in a few short moments and braces herself for it. All that Gryffindor moxie. It would be admirable, if it wasn't so damned annoying.

"Hmm, shame for you then," I drawl, my tone silken, "A little anxiety is always good. Gets the adrenaline flowing. _Expelliarmus_."

I can't help but snicker at the startled look on her face. She wasn't expecting that at all and her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she goes to retrieve her wand.

"Now, see, that would have been the end of it right there. I could torture you if I chose, could curse the skin off your bones and you couldn't do a thing to stop me," my tone is chiding despite the evident amusement on my face, "Maybe if you were paying attention to my duels with Dolohov and Malfoy and not eyeing my cleavage like a hungry infant, you'd have remembered I tend to start my sparring matches by disarming my opponents." I really can't help myself. She makes it too easy. And Sweet Salazar, the scandalized blush that blooms across her cheeks is certainly a rewarding sight. "But I'll give you another chance, I think."

She huffs at this and its the first time I see any expression from her other than the usual fanatic eagerness and mortification. Interesting. Her brows are furrowed, her nostrils flared, her lips thinned, and its almost too late when I realize that I'm the one who is staring now.

Giving myself an internal shake, I roll my eyes, and properly aim my wand this time. Call it a courtesy warning that I'm about to cast. The next spell won't be as mild.

" _Stupefy_!"

" _Protego_!"

The bolt of red hits her hastily conjured shield and shatters it, leaving her unharmed but open to my next attack, a silent Knockback Jinx. As if struck in the chest, she stumbles backward and ends up tripping over her own bloody shoelace.

"What are those?" I deadpan, glancing pointedly at the ugly rubber things on her feet.

Slightly out of breath, she seems confused for a moment before following my line of vision, and sets to tying the rogue lace, "Oh, my trainers."

"Trainers, eh?" I snort, "What exactly are they training you to do, break an ankle? Or maybe you're just that clumsy on your own. Come on pet, up you get."

She scowls at me as she makes a knot in the lace and bounces back to her feet, readying herself for more of what I have no qualms dishing out. I'm having far too much fun.

We continue on with this for the remainder of the hour long session, me casting essentially elementary jinxes and hexes and her either shielding herself from them or slipping up and taking the hits, and my mocking laughter and taunting remarks along with them.

She is growing more and more frustrated with each mistake she makes, which only spurs me on further. I can understand it of course. She was probably top of her class while in school, praised by her professors and friends for being so 'bloody brilliant' but being extremely good at schoolwork and spellcasting doesn't make one a dueling prodigy. There is no book you can read that will teach you how to do something that requires rigorous practice and dedication. Perhaps she thought it would come just as easily as the things that have come to her before, but now I am proving her wrong. And not being the slightest bit modest about it either.

When she loses her balance for the fourth time, I call the end of the session. "That's all for today, pet. You've got a lot to work on before I see you next. Hopefully you'll stay on your feet a little longer, yes?" I turn to walk away before she can offer a retort.

My parting remark adds insult to injury clearly. I can tell by the way she leaves the hall without so much as a backward glance. Perhaps she won't return. I suppose that would solve the problem of those wandering bedroom eyes of hers, wouldn't it?

But Granger both surprises and manages to impress me yet once more when she arrives right on time for her session the following Saturday, the next, the one after that, and so on until she has been training with me for nearly two months.

I am not sure when it happens and I know that if anyone should outright ask me, though I'm not a liar, I will flat out deny it, but sometime during the course of these Saturday sessions coupled with the Sundays she comes just to 'watch', Granger begins to affect me.

She improves, slowly but surely, ever the model student. She takes my advice and clearly practices on the days she is not here, studies my technique and applies it to herself. She asks questions and internalizes the answers. She isn't rash, she isn't forceful, but she burns with this thirst for knowledge that I've witnessed in very few. That I've experienced myself.

There is more. Things about her that I can't put into words. The way she brims with genuine pride and happiness whenever I underhandedly compliment her choice of a spell or hex. The way her body seems to vibrate with anticipation or something naughtier when I draw near or touch her to correct her stance, her wand movements, or _rarely_ to help her to her feet.

Maybe it was the Saturday she had forgone her usual sweatpants and instead wore a garment of a tight, stretchy material that put the curvature of her calves, thighs, and arse on full display. When I'd inquired about them in what I intended to be a casual manner, she had the audacity to turn 'round and show the things off.

"They're spandex. Much easier to move around in."

Right. And I had hit her with a particularly nasty Stinging Jinx just to wipe the cheeky look off her face.

She watches me still and has become bolder about it. She doesn't advert her gaze anymore when I catch her. So intense this stare of her is, it's as if she is memorizing me, as if this weekend is the last she will ever see me. But she never misses a session. Religiously she comes, she trains. She stares. It's stopped bothering me, and the fact that it no longer bothers me, bothers me.

Her Gryffindor shows itself now when I tease her. She'll scoff or roll her eyes, and sometimes she even takes the piss out on me. Once, when she managed to throw off a barrage of spells I sent her way, she had the gall to laugh. A genuine pleased with herself laugh.

"Oh come on," she said with a playful glint in those brown eyes of hers, "I know you can do better than that, Bella."

Two things. No one taunts me. Ever. They don't have the balls. But this slip of a witch, apparently she does. And it thrills me. Also, no one outside my immediate family and my four duelists calls me 'Bella'. I never gave her an invitation to do so. But I also never corrected her intentional slip. Testing it out, she was, waiting to see how I would react. The sound of my name in its shortened form on her tounge is soft and sweet and now I always want her to use it.

I hate that I do.

I don't know when it happens, but I begin to look forward to Saturdays and Sundays. I while away my weekdays, a blur of faces, sparring matches, systematic drills and exercise, until its time to see her. And when she arrives, my body reacts against my will. My heart quickens and this strange tightening sensation seizes my stomach. No one has been able to evoke this kind of emotion from me since Riddle. The thought is a terrifying one and I don't like it. I don't fucking want it.

This is why I regret agreeing to train her. Had I known she would have this affect on me, I would have passed her off to Dolohov. But I can't forswear it now, can I? I never go back on my word. As much as I await the weekend, I likewise dread it.

I reach my breaking point after the twelfth session. I can take a lot but I can take this no longer. It's driving me mental, I'm crawling out of my skin. She has become a distraction and I don't tolerate unwelcome distractions. Wealthy as I am, I can't afford to.

As we spar, I am unusually short with her. This sets her on edge. It is oddly soothing that I am making her uncomfortable, unsure. Paying her back for the tumultuous feelings she's pulled out of me these past couple of months. I don't tease her, I don't smirk, I don't flirt. It throws her as its what she's come to expect from me. I cast offensive spells like clockwork, back to back - Stunners, Disarmers, Body Binds, Stinging Hexes - and she deflects, shields, dodges, until I catch her with a well timed ' _Levicorpus_ ' that leaves her dangling mid-air, flushed of face and gasping for breath.

I don't even crack a smile at how ridiculous she looks, annoyed that I even want to. I set her down rather unceremoniously and keep my wand aimed.

"What's wrong?" she asks as she gets back to her feet, "You seem upset." Her tone is soft, concerned, and I want to hex her again. The fact that she can sense that I'm off, it only fuels my ire. I wouldn't be off if it weren't for her and the perverse visions of her pretty little face fogging my head.

I disregard her question entirely. "You need to stop."

Concern gives way to confusion and her brows furrow slightly. I've perplexed her. "Stop what?"

Come now, she's bloody smart, this whole playing dumb thing is far from becoming. I tap my chin with the tip of my wand and tilt my head, feigning a thoughtful expression. "Oh I don't know, looking at me as if you want to fuck me?"

Because I've figured her out by now. That's what it is, even if she isn't aggressive or bold enough to sneak an inappropriate touch wherever she can, or flat out make me a proposition. All games aside, it can't be anything else. I'd assumed she was after a romp with me as she was clearly not satisfied at home, but oh no, the little lioness has been looking at me as if I'm the prey. Not the other way around. And as tantilizing a thought that might be, I want to be sickened by her presumption.

My tone holds more bite to it than she's used to and coupled with the shameless statement, I'm expecting her perplexity to morph into shock or chagrin.

But it doesn't. No, instead that curious furrow between her eyes irons out, her expression goes serious and she straightens her spine.

"Why?"

It takes a special kind of skill to catch me off guard. Some have joked I must have an additional sense that keeps me vigilantly alert. But Granger manages to achieve what few have ever done. I'm stunned. And my silence speaks for itself evidently because she arches an inquisitive brow, as if she demands a reply.

"Does it bother you?"

I regain my ability to speak with that one, and the emotion that blessedly washes over me, is anger.

"What the hell do you think?" I volley back, on the defensive. I don't like to be on that particular side of things, much preferring offense. "I thought you wanted a dueling trainer, not a prostitute."

She backs away from me as if I've struck her. I feel better. Granted, the wounded look on her face makes me feel the tiniest bit of guilt, but relief easily overpowers it. I want to get these silly notions out of this witch's head by any means necessary.

"I think that will be the end of our session today." We still have twenty minutes but the air around me feels too thick to properly inhale with her here. And if one of us is going to leave the hall, it will not be me. My haughty tone of dismissal makes her jaw clench but she doesn't argue.

When I'm alone, I release a shaky breath and run a hand through my hair, snagging some of the curls between my fingers. My chest is tight as if I've run a mile. The fragile thread of my composure, my control, for the past twelve weeks has been pulled, stretched, and now it's fit to break. I need to relieve some stress, just a little, to clear my head. And I know exactly who to go to for that.

Hermione Granger is dangerous. For all of her unassuming qualities and mannerisms, she is far too easy to underestimate. I prefer the devil I know, because this new devil with her cleverly concealed horns, has the power to drag me to hell.

And I just might let her.


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Beginning** _

**III**

I married Rodolphus Lestrange because I had to. I was given no choice in the matter. It was something that had been ordained when the both of us were hardly out of swaddling clothes. Something our parents arranged without taking into consideration how either of us might have felt.

We grew up together. When you're the right sort of Pureblood, it's just that. An endless array of dinner parties, soirees, the want, the bloody need of connection. More power. More prestige. More everything even when we had so much. But you learned at an early age that even if you were brought up with a goblin wrought silver spoon in your mouth, no cares in the world, all of your needs met, knowing that your name alone can get you anywhere, anything you may desire, it could all be snatched away in little more than a heartbeat by the very people that supplied you with this lavish lifestyle.

The thought of being disowned, cut off, to a wealthy Pureblood witch or wizard child was worse than a life sentence in Azkaban or execution by Dementor's Kiss. When you have everything, you simply cannot fathom what it might be like to have nothing. I was the eldest of three daughters, the flesh and blood of a wizard whose lineage nearly predated Hogwarts itself. A wizard who would have snapped his own wand to have a son. Who would have used any excuse to be rid of me and my sisters just to make himself feel better. So while technically I might have had a choice, when it came to marrying, it was more of an ultimatum. Do it or surrender all that I have ever had, all that I have ever been. I am no Gryffindor, bravery was never my virtue. Being the Slytherin I was and am, I did what I had to do to ensure my livelihood. To ensure the livelihood of my sisters. Even if it slaughtered me internally to do it.

It could have been worse, I suppose. Rod and I actually have a decent rapport. One could call us friends. He did not want to marry me any more than I wanted to marry him. We did what was expected of us, consummated the union, and thereby painted the perfect picture of magical purity in order to inherit; a marriage of convenience, survival for the both of us. Though given his particular proclivities, I wouldn't ever be able to satisfy him in the way that wives are obligated.

And thank Merlin for that.

We have our affairs. For the past twenty odd years, that has been the extent of our sex life. It keeps us sane. Helps us stand the sight of each other, locked in this loveless marriage that is holding by a gossamer strand that ever remains unbroken, hanging by its fragile thread. As cordial as we are, we enjoy each other best when we are apart. Those fifteen months he spent in Majorca, for example, with a Spanish wizard he met in a pub were utterly blissful for me and my numerous conquests. Still, no one quite understands me as he does. And vice versa. I've known him since he was a child, crying at the thought of being sorted into Hufflepuff. Ironically, Rodolphus epitomizes safety for me.

Yet he is not who I turn to when it comes to dealing with my struggle with Granger.

Alecto is more than just one of my duelists. Ten years my junior, she almost manages to come close to filling the place in my heart left vacant by the estrangement of my sister, Andromeda. I love my sisters, though I do not love Alecto. Not as a sister, nor as a lover. But Salazar save anyone who should try to harm her. Our relationship is quite complex. She might have initally been infatuated with me but has since realized me reciprocating such feelings was little more than fantasy. We have an understanding. Even if she does try to test my boundaries from time to time, she's easily returned to her place.

Which makes her the best person to go to for this dilemma of mine.

She has been waiting for me to crack. I know her well. I've seen her, covertly watching my sessions with the witch whose been occupying my thoughts, lingering after we're done. Waiting for me to come to her, waiting to give me release. Though, I've never allowed her to touch me intimately. I never allow any of the witches I bed to touch me. When I have my affairs with men, which is fairly rare, given our anatomy there's no getting passed that. But there is always some form of detatchment on my part. A means to an end. Alecto gives me release by allowing me to do anything I want to her. Sexually. Physically. If I need to hurt her, she lets me. If I need to hear her sing my name while my head is between her legs, she lets me. If I need to rant and rave when dueling alone can't quell one of my tantrums, she lends a listening ear.

She is there Friday night, pretending to make herself busy as Morsmordre closes. Usually I am the last to leave but for the past few weeks I've noticed her dallying about, watching, waiting, wondering until I order her home. Tonight, I decide enough is enough. I can't quite call the exchange Granger and I had last weekend a falling out. I know she will be there, right on time for her session tomorrow, but I can't, no I refuse to see her without having my way with Alecto first. I simply don't trust myself.

"Who do you think you're fooling," I drawl, slowly stalking toward her and where she has been magically stacking and restacking the same pile of towels for the past ten minutes, "Don't you have somewhere better to be?"

This is the game she and I play, a game I'm used to. Alecto's features are far too angular and striking to properly play coy. She is almost as much of a predator as I am in that regard. But she plays that role with me. I have seen her wield a shocking upperhand against wizards twice her size in a duel, but to me, she submits. She knows how I love control. Knows that without it, the resulting uncomfortability turns into cruelty. And no one wants to be on the receiving end of my personal brand of cruelty.

"I figured I should help you close up," Alecto murmurs, turning to face me, keeping her eyes downcast as I draw nearer, "Those boys can be so lazy and you've been quite busy today. I wouldn't want you tired for your morning session."

It's a ridiculous explanation to be sure as she knows as well as the others know I prefer to close Morsmordre myself. I do it every night. But I am slightly amused by the way she alludes to my seeing Granger tomorrow, noting the subtle derision that edges the statement. Perhaps she has been feeling neglected. That is not my concern, yet I still plan to remedy it for my own selfish reasons.

"How cheeky," I whisper, fully invading her personal space now and threading my fingers through her hair that she has since taken out of its usual bun. There's a gentle wave pattern to the normally straight tresses, softening her face in a way that is almost pretty. Alecto isn't unattractive but ever since my training sessions with Granger have started, my perception of female beauty has been altered. Then again, I don't really care if Alecto bears no resemblance to Circe herself, I plan to fuck her until she begs me stop.

And she is practically salivating for it.

"But I think," I allow my hand to fist in her hair, pulling her forward to cover the short distance between us, making her gasp in pain though her expression is one of preliminary rapture, "You'll be the one tired come morning, dearie."

I bring her face to mine and kiss her deeply, roughly, the blunt edges of my teeth cutting into her bottom lip. The coppery tang of blood hitting my tongue makes a low growl rumble at the back of my throat. I like to leave my mark, to leave a map of reminders for my lovers to trace whenever they should forget the winding path of my pleasure, and it isn't long before the kiss trails to the sharp cut of her jaw and the column of her neck, relishing the red and purple bruises that begin to mar her freckled skin.

Releasing my hold on her hair, I make quick work of her dragon hide vest, my movements bordering on frantic now. And her breathy moans in my ear do nothing but spur me on to untying the laces of the matching pants. With a hard shove, her back is against the hall's rear stone wall and my hand is working itself down between the coarse, leathery material, my fingers seeking out drenched warmth that has already pooled from the hasty foreplay.

Alecto's head falls back, a soft keen renting the air as I circle her clit, my teeth nipping, biting at her collarbone and the swell of her cleavage. I can smell her arousal, it cuts through the usual stale odor that permeates the semi underground hall. She grasps at my shoulders, knowing better than to snag my curls, shamelessly thrusting against my hand, crying out now, begging me, pleading with me to bring her to completion. But it isn't enough stimulation, the tight circles I make against her nub, swollen beneath my fingertips, slippery from all that wetness.

With a soft grunt, I turn her around and yank her pants down to her ankles. With her arse on display she spreads her legs and I grab the back of her neck, urging her to bend forward. "Is this what you want," I whisper against the shell of her ear, slapping my free hand, still slick, against the swell of her rear, "Tell me. Tell me what you want Bella to do to you."

The hold I have on her does more than put me in a position to dominate, it keeps her in place as her knees are shaking from supporting her weight in her wanton state. "Please," she gasps, her voice pitched high, breathless, "Please fuck me Bella."

I can't help but notice how different the shortened form of my name sounds falling from her mouth. It lacks the dulcet timbre that Granger's has when she says it. And perhaps it is frustration at the fact that in this moment I'm thinking about that bushy haired witch that puts me three fingers deep inside Alecto without preamble or warning.

"Merlin yes!" she shrieks wildly, even as I feel the edge of one of my rings cut into her flesh. But she's never been one to shy away from a bit of pain.

My grip on the back of her neck tightens as I fuck her from behind. The expletives that are forced freely from her throat would make a schoolgirl blush but it quickens me, driving my fingers in and out of her wet heat. I try to focus on it all to keep the images of Granger attempting to invade my mind's eye at bay.

It proves futile to try. Even with Alecto bucking beneath me, her back in a perfect arch, my fingers buried inside her, her voice filling my ears, I can still picture Granger and her steady hazel gaze that follows me like a shadow. I can't help but wonder what her moans would sound like on the verge of orgasm. Would she tell me how she wants it and sweet Salazar, how would my name sound while I'm fucking her? What other little noises could I draw from her? Blatant swear words melded together with high pitched wails like Alecto, or is Hermione Granger a different instrument entirely that I would have to learn to tune and practice in order to proficiently play?

Perspiration beads at my temples as I work a fourth finger passed some slight resistance to join the first three. Alecto's words are indecipherable now, sharp cries, and breathy sobs as I keep a steady pace. I don't often go this route with her but I need to push her over the edge, praying her fall will provide enough of a distraction. My free hand moves from her neck back to her hair and I pull harshly, yanking her towards me as my other hand contorts to fit my thumb into her. If her resulting gutteral scream is any indication, it won't take much more. With a twist of my wrist, heat envelopes the ridge of my knuckles and I fuck her deep, evenly precise strokes against her moist, quivering flesh.

Alecto climaxes hard and loud, her inner muscles clenching, pulsing almost painfully around my hand, her chest heaving with her heavy panting as she tries to catch her breath. With a dark smirk, I spread my fingers still inside her, simultaneously stretching the sensitive tissue and stimulating the throbbing nerve endings.

"No more, no more," she whimpers plaintively, groaning as her hips jerk away from my probing digits.

I slowly slip my hand out of her and my grip on her hair loosens, though I steady her by grasping her bicep or else she'll fall. She's like a baby Abraxan who has been hit with a Jelly Legs Jinx right now and it brings forth a mocking chuckle from my lips.

"Well, well," I chide haughtily, releasing her arm and drawing my wand to cast a silent Scourgify on my hands, "What a dirty little witch you are Miss Carrow. Best clean yourself up."

I step away from her while she adjusts her clothes and does as she's told. Now that it's happened, I need to put some disance between us, put those boundaries back into place. But she knows what to expect of course. She's played her part.

Too bad it hasn't helped much. It might have taken the edge off but I fear I may need another dose sooner rather than later.

Saturday arrives uneventfully and for some annoying reason, I feel antsy, nervous. I never, ever get nervous. The word itself makes me want to rip my hair out, applying it as a description for the way I feel, disgusts me immensely. Even a quick shag with Alecto before the hall opened that morning isn't enough to quell the uncomfortable feeling. Though, seeing her walk around with a slight limp, knowing I am responsible for that evident ache between her legs, is rather amusing. But not humorous enough that I am able to forget that Granger will be arriving in fifteen minutes for her weekly session. Or that her impending arrival is evoking feelings in me that make me want to strangle a sodding dragon.

I have no idea where this intrigue in her came from. I don't know why it makes my jaw clench and my stomach knot every time I so much as think her name. For fuck's sake the girl is married, with two children. She should sicken me by default. I've never wanted children and as Rodolphus and I haven't so much as literally slept together in decades, there weren't even any unplanned accidents under my belt. And let us be honest, sharing a bed with the average woman whose had infants suckling at her breasts, well it isn't exactly my shot of Firewhiskey. But Granger, she isn't average. For some reason, I can liken her to Elven wine, which ripens, grows better with age and I have a sinking suspicion that had I met her when she was just out of Hogwarts, before matrimony and motherhood, she would have been far too fresh for my taste.

"You all right, Trixie," Barty voice sounds from my left and I wonder how long he's been standing there and how the hell he managed to sneak up on me.

"Yes, of course," I remark with an arch of my brow, my nails tapping against the marble slab of the sign-in desk I'm propped up against, "Why?"

Barty is the only person on earth who is allowed to call me 'Trixie'. Others who have tried either ended up with a fat lip or a well aimed hex where it hurts the most. It's our own sort of rapport between he and I. But I suppose one is bequeathed certain exclusive benefits when they happen to be the person with whom you had your first extramarital affair. It has been years since our last tryst, however, and Barty has become something of a brother to me now. Highly annoying sometimes, but loyal always.

"If you say you're all right, you're all right," he says with a devil may care shrug that compliments his cropped straw colored hair, blue grey eyes, and scruffy chin. Looks are strictly inherited, yes, but it's wondrous how you can almost always use someone's features, expressions, and mannerisms to discern their personality. He has that 'I was a troublemaker as a child' look about him, but the difference between then and now is that Barty's dueling skills can result in a lengthy stay at St. Mungo's for the unfortunate individual who should make the mistake of underestimating him.

"Oh, by the way, your girl is going to be late."

That gets my undivided attention and I face him properly, my eyes narrowing at the edges, pointedly ignoring the odd little swooping sensation in my belly upon hearing the phrase 'your girl' and knowing exactly who Barty is referring to.

"What do you mean?"

Granger is never late to our sessions so this fact automatically and quite without my consent, worries me. For any other trainee I would promptly inform them not to bother showing up at all as I don't tolerate tardiness where booked appointments are concerned. But in the three months she's been training with me, this is the first time this has happened.

"Got this note with the morning post," Barty replies, in that same nonchalant tone, as he pulls a folded bit of parchment from his dueling robes pocket, "Says you can expect her an hour later than scheduled."

I snatch the note from his hand, quickly scanning the neatly written message. Such elegant penmanship. But there is no further explanation. Merely exactly what Barty said. With a scoff I toss the parchment to the side and continue drumming my fingertips against the marble.

"Should I write back and tell her the session's canceled?"

Right. Of course he would ask that, as it is my usual response. I surprise the both of us when I make a flippant hand gesture and shake my head.

"No, I'll wait for her."

Barty looks positively stunned for a moment before he shakes it off with another shrug, but I can detect a glimpse of an amused smirk making one corner of his mouth twitch. "Whatever you say boss."

The scowl that instantly settles itself onto my face is enough to wipe any trace of humor from Barty's lips and he leaves me to brew in my own displeasure. Not only is that married Muggleborn mummy making me feel things I refuse to verbally acknowledge, she is inadvertently making me the laughing stock of Morsmordre.

I must not have been clear enough for her last week. So, yes, I will wait because Granger is severly in need of a reality check. Her and I? Not in this lifetime. Or any other. This game of hers needs to end.

She is an hour and forty five minutes late.

Anger easily conceals the concern I feel when I take in her slightly disheveled appearance. Her clothes are the same attire she usually wears. Those spandex and trainers, a tight fitting sleeveless top she calls a camisole. But her hair, it's frizzled and frayed, unbound, and all but swallowing her face, which is flushed and damp with sweat. She looks as if she has run here. That or had a quickie in a dark alley and did a shitty job of making herself presentable afterward.

I can tell by the stares she gets from those sparring out in front that some of those troll brained wizards are thinking the latter. And my ire increases tenfold at the thought of them looking at her like some day walking tramp.

"Granger," I bark out, and she flinches at the heat in my voice like a chastised child, "Room 3."

Morsmordre is divided in half. The front portion above ground, a wide space where trainees may spar openly and in plain view of everyone in the vicinity. There are ten mats situated with enough distance between them to ensure no one is hit by a ricocheting spell or poor aim. The lower portion is accessed by a staircase that leads undergound and consists of six private rooms where witches and wizards can receive one on one training with the dueling masters. Or engage in duels where the rules are bent and harsher curses and hexes are permitted as well as the use of wizard and goblin crafted weaponry. For those sparring sessions either Barty or myself bear witness, ready to interfere before any laws are broken or irreparable damage is done. Our presence is a rather recent thing, though. When Riddle was owner, whatever happened in one of those rooms, stayed in one of those rooms.

Granger follows behind me, somewhat hesitantly as we've always held our sessions in the front section. But she doesn't argue or protest. She follows.

Once we are in the room, I slam and lock the door. This is the first time we have been completely alone together. Out of view from any other trainees. Out of view of my trusted four. It just her and I. And she is watching me, even as her chest rises and falls between the skimpy confines of her camisole. Even as I can detect the anger that almost matches mine on her face. Why would she be angry, I wonder.

"You're late," I deadpan, needing something, anything to break this tense silence between us that seems louder than a scream, "Why?"

"My stupid husband," she all but growls, "He accidentally fed our son strawberry jam while I was in the shower and he fucking knows Hugo is allergic to strawberries."

I don't know what shocks me more, the fact that she is speaking about her own husband with such rage, disgust, and disappointment, or if it's because this is the first time I've ever heard her swear. I want to tease her about it. Threaten to wash her mouth out with a scouring charm. But what I say instead is,

"Is he all right?"

It's her turn to be surprised now and honestly, I don't blame her. Why should I care what happened to one of her snot nosed brats because the wizard she chose to procreate with is an idiot? But the question is voiced nonetheless and she exhales softly, nodding.

"Yes, it wasn't a severe reaction, thank Merlin. He broke out in hives so I put a murtlap essence salve on him, brewed him a children's sleeping draught, and read him his favorite story until he fell asleep. That's why I'm late."

I am unsure of what to say. As I've never had children, it has never crossed my mind of what a parent would do to heal them from such a common thing as a case of hives. Whenever my sisters or I took ill, our parents left our care up to the nanny House Elf. Our mother never read to us. As a matter of fact, had a similar situation happened to me, Andromeda, or Narcissa, Mother would have probably fretted herself into a fever worrying the hives would leave permanent scarring that would remove any of us from the marriage market. But Granger's worry for her son seems to vastly differ from something so superficial.

"Did you hex your stupid husband for being so careless?" I ask, twirling my wand around a lock of my hair out of habit, "You've learned some good ones these last few weeks."

She laughs at this, a genuine, hearty series of chuckles that are perhaps the most melodic, unjaded sounds of amusement I've ever heard. There is nothing cold, derisive, or mocking about it. Her laughter, it's warm.

But then her face crumples and the laughter turns to sobs. Melody turns to discord, and her weeping is as heartbreaking and disarming as her amusement was pure. I gasp at the sudden change, torn between being horrified by the open display of abject discontentment and the desire to do anything to stop her tears from their freefall down her cheeks by any means.

"Granger?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, softened in a way that hasn't been heard since I was young, "Are you all right?"

It's an idiotic question. Of course the girl isn't all right. It has been too long since I've comforted anyone. I think I've forgotten how.

She doesn't respond with words, just more of that miserable crying. I don't think there is a more pathetic sight than a full grown witch or wizard sobbing and hiccuping like a child, but where there should have been repulsion, I feel pity. No, it isn't pity, not exactly. It's sympathy.

She is expressing right now what I couldn't bring myself to express those days after I married Rodolphus. I see it. I understand it. She is just as unhappy in her marriage as I was. Perhaps more so because she had chosen it, she had chosen her husband herself. There had been no arrangement for her. No threat of disownment or destitution. Whatever feelings of regret she is experiencing now, she has no one to pin it on but herself.

If I were to look back on this moment in the future, I would say I meant to slap her out of her tantrum. I wanted her to stop crying and if I were thinking rationally, it would have been because it was unseemly. But once I cross the distance between her and I in a couple short strides, instead of making contact with her cheek with an open palm, I am wrapping my arms around her. I am hugging her.

And fuck me dead, she just fits. She's soft, no hard angles, no muscle. She's simply womanly in my embrace. Without my boots she would be taller than me, but we are the same height now and her chin rests on my shoulder. I can feel the shudder that go through her with each breath she takes. I can count the beats of her heart. That is how close we are. And I never want to let her go. Salazar sodding smite me, I don't.

"You smell different," she murmurs, her voice gone hoarse with emotion.

"Do I?" I respond, my brows furrowing though she can't see the expression on my face.

"Yes. Usually you smell like spices. Cloves and cinnamon. Something citrusy, vanilla. But today you smell like rosewater."

That she can smell Alecto on me and knows that it's different from my own scent, the fact that she can name the fragrances of my soaps and shampoo, makes me feel strangely guilty, while at the same time it evokes that infernal clenching sensation in the pit of my stomach. I pull back just enough to look at her properly. Her eyes are blood shot and swollen, stray strands of her hair are stuck to her cheeks and forehead. And she is staring up at me with this look that treads perilously close to adoration. As if there is nothing about me she could ever come to hate.

I know exactly what she is going to do next.

She kisses me. With no unsurety or hesitation. That fearless Gryffindor lioness inside her, unsheathing its claws as she claims my mouth and I let her. It's as if some invisible force is using all that makes Granger and I uniquely different, all of our contrasting qualities and subtle similarities, pulling us together. This kiss is nothing like I've ever experienced. I tend to use my teeth and tongue like weapons, ravaging, abusing, forcing pleasure that is always twined with pain, but it's not like that now. This is soft and sweet, our lips melt together and a low groan is pulled from my throat as she gasps. I bring a hand up to cup her cheek, holding her in place to deepen the kiss, exploring her mouth, tasting the remnants of her sadness that mingles with a lingering cool spearmint flavor.

Her fingers work themselves in my hair and she pulls me closer, her breasts flush against mine. There is a fervent heat burning between us as I break the kiss to trace the soft skin along her jawline with my lips. She smells of fresh fruit, ripened peaches that I want to bite into, low undertones of sweetpea in bloom. It is intoxicating, making my head spin as if I've consumed far too much alcohol. I shouldn't be doing this. Unprofessionalism aside, it feels too good to be right. But I don't want to stop, I don't think I can. My control is slipping and that thought should be a terrifying one. It would have been if not for the whispered moans she makes as I suckle her fluttering pulse point.

I am utterly bewitched. Somehow without casting a spell this woman has bewitched me. It is a seduction of the worst sort. Her hands disentangle themsleves from my hair and move to the lapels of my Erumpent leather jacket as if she means to take it off of me. What shocks me, after all of this, is that I almost allow her to.

Almost.

"No," I ground out between clenched teeth, my heart throbbing in my ears, loud enough to drown out Granger's raged beathing, distract me from the crestfallen expression on her face by the mere though of maybe being rejected. But I don't want to reject her. This is the culmination of all of those weeks, the exhilaratingly debilitating feelings the pair of us share, the tense, sexually charge air rolling in thick, heady waves around us. But I can't have her like this. Not in some small, windowless, underground training room. "Not here. There's a fireplace in my office. Come."

I drag her out of the room, heading blindly in the direction of my small office that had once been Riddle's. And for the first time since becoming owner of Morsmordre, I don't picture his face as I push the door open and stride towards the fireplace with its silver pot of Floo Powder. I take a handful and toss it into the crackling flames.

"Where are we going?" Granger asks from behind me. I toss a wicked smirk over my shoulder, my eyes gone pitch black with the hunger and arousal this witch has drawn out of me.

"To hell, pet."

Funny, I had never imagined the fires of hell would be Slytherin green.

How fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alecto is portrayed by Kelly Mittendorf  
> Barty by Boyd Holbrook


	4. Chapter 4

_**The Beginning** _

**IV**

The Lestrange Estate has been my home since I was twenty years old. Like a new pair of boots, it was something that I had to break in order to feel comfortable residing within its walls. It is not as lavishly ostentatious or grandiose as Black Manor, my childhood home, but as the years went by I came to appreciate its subtle aristocratic charm. Or the charm it might have had before it was passed down to the eldest Lestrange heir.

I am not nor have I ever been the homemaker my middle sister probably has become as the matriarch of her new half Muggle family, or the socialite my youngest sister waited her entire infancy, childhood, and adolescence to become. I did not season the place with 'a woman's touch' though anyone who so happens to walk the halls will surely feel my presence.

There are spider cracks in the hand brocade walls from the many times I've lost my temper or found myself in need of magical release and did not fancy a trip to Azkaban for maiming my husband. Where there might have been vases of garden flowers on end tables, there are potted Venemous Tentacula which I've raised from seedlings. Where there should have been cabinets filled with family heirlooms or fine china or other such dribble, are large glass cases stocked with dark artifacts, shrunken heads, cursed weapons, and vials of rare potions. The sitting room's furniture are French antiques, perserved by enchantments to keep the rarely occupied fabric from going threadbare. The long mahogany wood table in the dining room could easily seat twelve guests, but hasn't been used since Rod's parents were living. Also to have fallen into disuse over the decades is the estate's grand ballroom. A once resplendant marble cavern with eight floor to ceiling glass windows overlooking the grounds, and a Goblin gilded chandelier, has become the domain of cobwebs, dust, and shadows. The only rooms in this part of the manse that get to experience frequent human or Elven contact is the library and study. On the upper level, the family portraits line a dimly lit carpeted corridor that leads into seven bedrooms, four bath chambers, and the stone stairwell up to a small Owlery. The basement houses the kitchen and the Elfs' quarters.

I am not in the habit of bringing my lovers or potential lovers to Lestrange Estate. But for some reason, upon my verbal command, the Floo Network spits Granger and I out of the fireplace into my chambers. The most spacious of the bedrooms, this place is my own private sanctuary. Rodolphus hasn't been in it since our wedding night. In fact, besides myself, the only other living souls to be within its walls are the House Elves.

My ebony wood four poster with its heavy sable drapes dominate the room set in the manse's west wing. The bow windows provide the perfect view of the setting sun every evening. Two cases contain my prized collection of leather bound books of spells, potions, centuries of magical history, ancient tomes, scrolls, and magic symbology. A squat silver and glass liquor cabinet is filled with bottles of aged Elf made wine, French absinthe, Ogden's Old and Blishen's Firewhiskey. Random odds and ends are scattered about the room, vials of perfume and cosmetics are strewn across my vanity.

"Welcome to my humble abode," I drawl with a superfluous gesture, turning to Granger who has this adorably shocked look on her face, "Make yourself at home."

She chuckles at this and shakes her head, "Sorry. There are no stray wizard chess pieces or a toy broomstick to trip over for me to do that."

She has a point there. The last of the children to run up and down the estate's halls were Rod and his brother Rabastan over thirty years ago. There are no longer any remnants of that time lying about. Even my nephew Draco had never spent enough time here to leave so much as an old snot rag. I hum softly, a barely there acknowledgement to her statement. I did not bring her here to discuss her and her husband's offspring.

"Do you want a drink?"

Granger nods a little too quickly for it to be casual and I cannot help but smirk. It is funny how this witch can go from fierce lioness to docile lamb, then back and back. Something about it frustrates me and excites me equally. It's as if I am looking at the mirror image of myself. A witch who is my complete opposite but somehow manages to remind me of me.

"Bitty," I call out, my tone hardly rising about my natural speaking voice and with a small pop, a young House Elf appears in the center of the room.

"Mistress has called for Bitty. How is Bitty to be helping Mistress and Mistress's guest?"

"Two glasses," I order as I select a bottle of amber liquid from my cabinet. Blishen's has always been my favorite. "One with ice the other without."

Bitty snaps her long, spindly fingers and a tray appears in her hand with the requested items. I wave the creature away and she disappears in the same manner which she came.

"Is she your only House Elf?" Granger asks as she takes the glass of ice I offer her.

"No, I've five." I'm generous with my glass, filling it to about four fingers, "When I married I brought one with me from Black Manor and Rodolphus inherited one. They've since whelped. Bitty is the youngest."

Granger's glass gets about a thimbleful. And the eyebrow raise she gives me in response makes me snort. "I won't have you stumbling about my home like a sodding Hippogriff, breaking up my things only because you can't handle your liquor, pet."

"I'm not as innocent as you think Bella," she murmurs and those hazels hold my gaze in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. This affect she has on me. It makes me want to smile and mercilessly curse her simultaneously.

"I can see that," I whisper, bringing the rim of my glass to my lips and taking a sip. The accompanying burn in a my chest is a welcome feeling and I quickly take another.

"Do you treat your House Elves well? You don't abuse them?"

Annoyance settles over my face and the scoff that follows is tinged with derision. "What are you, some sort of bloody martyr for Elf welfare?"

"Actually I am the Department Head for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," she quips in know-it-all fashion, as if she is not merely stating her place of employ but implying it automatically makes her a renowned expert on the topic, "So I'm well within my right to inquire."

"Fine, but you're well ruining the mood. My Elves take great pride in their work and this family. I've no need to punish them, nor do they punish themselves. However if you would much rather offend them with an interrogation instead of snogging me, by all means go ahead."

The smirk that tugs at the corners of my mouth as she chokes on her sip of Blishen's is a particularly wicked one. I remove the glass from her hand, drain the last of mine, and set them both on the vanity.

She stands there in the middle of my room and I suppose I expect her to balk - just as I did before she signed the waiver with the Black Quill all those weeks ago - as soon as I remind her of the shameless kiss she planted on me in that underground dueling chamber of Morsmordre. She had kissed me like no one ever has before. As if I were water and she was dying of thirst. Traces of arousal still lingers in my blood, now fueled by Firewhiskey, as I remember the feel of her lips on mine, the feel of her heart hammering against me when she held me close. Her fingers in my hair.

I circle her slowly, purposely invading her personal space. Her hazel eyes widen slightly as I thread a hand through her bushy brown tresses. Soft, the texture is softer than I thought it might be given the way it looks. And it isn't merely a plain brown. There are hints of copper, red, and gold that blend together to make its own unique shade. She leans into my touch when I draw the tips of my fingers across her collarbone, a light shiver goes through her at the added sensation of my nails and a sigh accompanies it, spilling freely from her parted lips when I rest my chin on the blade of her shoulder and press an open mouth kiss to the shell of her ear.

"What would your husband say," I whisper, my tone low but song-like, as I continue to touch her, lightly, teasing, tracing random patterns against the skin left bare by the cut of her camisole, "If he could see his pretty little wife right now?"

Her body stiffens and she whirls around to face me, her expression one of outrage, her eyes narrowed in a glare.

"Now who's ruining the mood?"

I tilt my head and shrug in response, not at all disarmed by her anger. I'll not be the catalyst of her perfect life going up in smoke. The difference between she and I in this regard is that if Rod were to bear witness to whatever it is that Granger thinks she wants to happen, he could tell me nothing. He would not be able to accuse me of anything he hasn't done himself. He won't divorce me. Afterward, he might compliment my taste in lovers and then go off to whet his own sexual appetite for the night. There would be no consequences for me. This is nothing like my trysts with Alecto whose parents pawned her off to a notoriously lecherous old pureblood wizard when she was just seventeen. He blessedly made her a widow two years after the wedding. There were never any consequences for her. But for Granger, this is another matter entirely. I need to be sure that she is aware of the risks she is taking now before things have even crossed the threshold between her snogging me and what inevitably happens next.

I'll not be the one she blames for her infedility once she can't handle the guilt.

Something flashes in her eyes then, something far more heated and sinister than an indignant glare. This just skirts the line of dangerous. It's as if someone has sparked a flame against those hazels and as they smolder, they darken, transforming her expression into something fierce, deadly. Against my own will, I take a step backward.

"Don't you think I've thought about what he might say?" she all but growls, the roughness in her voice tightening things low in my belly, "Don't you think I've thought about what might happen if he ever found out how much I can't stand him? How dead I feel inside being married to him?" She closes the distance between us and I take another step back just to see her invade my space once more. "Don't you think I know its wrong to want you?" It's like a dance. A step back, a step forward. I wish I could say I am luring her to me. It would make me feel as I have never given her the upperhand. Truth is, the lioness actually has me on the retreat. The intensity rolling off of her is making the air around us thick with so much heat and tension, it has become hard to breathe. "I. Don't. Care."

The backs of my knees hit the edge of my bed and with a soft sound of surprise, I fall onto my back in the center of my Fwooper down bedding. She follows, stradling me in a fluid motion. I blink up at her, a maelstrom of contrasting emotions storming within me. There is desire, as well as shock, and though I'm loathe to admit it, unease. She has me in a compromising position. One that I have no experience with. The things she could do to me, if I let her. If I relinquish control.

"You make me feel alive, Bella," she whispers and there is the threat of tears in her voice though none in her eyes as she stares down at me. There is hunger there, a confidence I had no idea she possesses. Conviction. Something that could be predatory. But also something that is beseeching. She is asking, no, begging for my permission.

I am physically stronger than her. I could easily reverse our positions. But I don't. My tolerance is much too high to blame the Blishen's when I let her cup my cheek in her hand, warm with just the slightest tremble. I let her lean forward, my hands kept passively at my sides. I let her kiss me.

As was our first, this kiss is the sort that melts you slowly. Soft, so soft are her lips as they envelope mine. It deepens, the taste of her enhanced by traces of Firewhiskey. She doesn't bite, she suckles. It isn't a battle for dominance but a sure, sensual gesture that makes my heart throb in my chest and the parts below my waist dampen. She uses her hands as I do, like weapons, though she doesn't wield them with force or the desire to cause pain. She uses one to lightly grip at my side, the other has since left my cheek and is tangled in my hair. She doesn't snag or tug at my curls, merely toys with the dark strands, letting them fall between her fingers like liquid.

"You're playing with fire, girl," I mutter as I break the kiss, inwardly cursing the breathy tremor in my voice. Sweet fucking Salazar, what is she doing to me?

"Then let me burn."

She kisses me again and this time I use my hands to grip her sides, which are soft with no resistance under the light material of the camisole. She moans into my mouth, my name whispered as she kisses me like she means to draw the very breath from my lungs. My heart is pounding beneath the confines of my corset, a cantering cadence spurred by equal parts lust and the makings of nervousness.

Like unsurety and fear, I despise the subtle pins and needles feeling that anxiety evokes. Though I had once teased her, saying that anxiety can be a good thing in a duel, I don't truly believe it when it comes to myself. It makes me feel weak, small. I come from a lifestyle that epitomizes superiority, being on top. I'm not the sort that is content to allow someone to dominate me. It isn't in my nature to accept it. It is why I take so much pride in the way that I duel. I am always on the offense. There is never a need for Shield Charms because nothing can so much as touch me with my walnut wand in hand, an arsenal of spells, hexes, curses poised on the tip of my tongue that I know will hit with accuracy, precision. Sex, fucking is no different. I pillage and plunder, I rob witches and wizards of their very souls with my own variation of a Dementor's Kiss, using my assets and honed skill to extract a near deadly pleasure. I don't know how to allow someone to do that to me in return. I've never wanted to surrender to anyone in my life. Not totally, not completely. Not the way Granger wants.

I am waging an internal battle against myself even as she lavishes my lips, my cheeks, my neck with her gentle, open mouthed affection that has soothed scraped knees and bid sweet dreams. I can't do this, no matter how heated my blood has gone, no matter the way my thighs are clenching beneath her weight in hopes to alleviate some of the ache between my legs. My hips roll upward seeking out some friction. Her hands are trailing the length of my ribs, seeking for a way to get beneath the bones of my corset. It is a relief in itself to know she cannot untie my stays with me laying on my back. A small victory in this mental war.

But when I look up at Granger, I see the strangest expression on her face and the relief shatters. She is smirking down at me, her hazel eyes blown with desire, her lips quirked upward in a decidedly devilish expression that could rival my most wicked. Before I can ask her why the bloody hell she is looking at me like that, from the corner of my eye I see her draw her wand.

Instinctively, I reach out and grasp her wrist hard enough to leave a nasty bruise. Though I doubt she would even try to hex me, being both disarmed and beneath a witch with a wand in her hand, coupled with the tumult of loathsome emotions brewing within me, is too much to contend with.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Granger appeals, her voice gone tight in response to the unforgiving grip I have on her wrist, "I just want to show you something. Trust me."

And there it is. The crux of the issue. Trust. What is this girl to me? How do I know that I can trust her? Everyone who is a constant in my life - my sister Narcissa, Rodolphus, my duelists, the late Master Riddle - I trust them with my life because they have all given me reason to do so. They have earned it. This witch, she can't even be trusted by her own husband, if we are going to split unicorn hairs. And while no, this is no life or death situation, it's just sex - something I've engaged in countless times with countless individuals - I've never had to drop my guard, lower my shields. None of them had ever even tried to break down my walls. Why should I for her?

"Please," she says, all honeyed sweetness, no hint of threat or malice. If I were a skilled Legilimens, one who did not need the aid of intense concentration, a wand or spell, I could easily be certain of her sincerity but I am not, and the only thing keeping me from giving in, is me. "Please, Bella?"

"Fine," I growl, hesitantly relenting, the word holding exasperation and a bite of anger, "But any funny business, pet, and I will break your arm."

"I know," she responds though there is no mockery or sarcasm and I slowly release her. She beams at me as if she is destitute and I have just handed her a sackful of Galleons. A bright smile that makes her eyes crinkle in the corners and her cheeks dimple. She is beautiful, beautiful in a way that she is evidently not aware of.

She waves her wand and the incantation is a silent one. The instant effects though are louder than a Banshee's shriek. In a heartbeat, both she and I are completely naked. I can't help but gasp at the sudden feel of her warm, bare skin on mine. She is all delicious womanly curves, her past pregnancies evident in her hips and torso, the ripe fullness of her breasts. What is also evident is her arousal, slick heat that gives away just how much she enjoyed snogging the shit out of me.

"Impressive," I drawl in an attempt to cover up my surprise. I needn't have had to trouble myself. She hasn't even heard my voice. She is much too busy letting her eyes hungrily absorb my body. Her gaze lingers on what I affectionately refer to as my 'battle scars' from my days of training with Riddle and other duels that got a little intense. But it trails indolently over my breasts, my toned stomach, lower.

"See something you like, Granger?" I murmur teasingly, thoroughly enjoying her almost school girl like fascination. She is like a child in Honeydukes surrounded by all the sweets she can eat and unsure of where to start. Despite my reservations, the thought is not entirely unwelcome.

"Yes," is her somewhat strained response and its with that one word that she leans forward to draw one of my nipples into her mouth.

I groan low in my throat, the muscles in my torso and below my waist clenching at the sensations her tongue evokes. She has hardly touched me and already I know this is going to be different. When I take male lovers and they do whatever they do in an attempt to please me, I am practically silent, unresponsive. I am the one who makes my lovers squirm, shake, cry out in ecstasy. But not now. Granger, she has managed to stretch the coil of my control so thin in these past few weeks, reaching its zenith in this past hour, and with just the feel of her mouth, the gentle pressure of her teeth on the pebbled peak of my breast, I can feel the now fragile strand of my control begin to snap.

It is both frightening and exhilarating.

Her heady, tender kisses and that wicked little tongue of hers explores the length of my body, her hands, feathery touches, the light scrape of her nails that don't score, don't even scratch, yet still makes me writhe beneath her, seeking her touch. She is careful, dove-like in her tasting, touching. Like I am made of glass or porcelain and she doesn't want to crack or damage me. Warmth, her touch is warmth and it is enough to ignite this flame within me. She stokes it, slowly, soothes it like she doesn't wish for it to grow into a raging inferno but to burn steadily still. The softest gasps fall freely from my parted lips, my chest rising and falling rapidly, my heart fluttering beneath my ribs. I want to bite my lip, my tongue hard enough to cut through the haze of this torturous pleasure. That is what this is, a torture of the sweetest variety. I feel as if I could be falling, flying, yet still teetering at the precipice. I don't want to let go but with her touch, she is prying me away from the edge to freefall into descent.

She shifts her body, deft fingers sliding lower, lower past my waist, my navel, until they are slipping between the hot sodden folds of my core. I hiss at the contact, my eyelids fluttering at the sparks of heat her touch evokes while she makes some small noise of reverence at the back of her throat. As if she has just discovered some long lost treasure.

Granger knows what she's doing, that much becomes obvious when she makes lazy circles around my clit, while her teeth nip lightly at the thin skin above my mound. My hips roll to meet her fingers, a moan caught in my throat while she continues this onslaught. Her brows are furrowed slightly in concentration as she increases the speed and my legs quiver. Mortified, I can feel the climax building already though she's barely touching me. I grit my teeth, my jaw clenched around harsh exhales that makes my chest heave in an attempt to keep the sounds that want to burst free at bay. I don't whimper, I don't beg. But she is making me want to.

This seems to frustrate her and that frustration quickens her pace. My arousal facilitates her fingers but she never stops being gentle, almost worshipful with my body, despite how frantically she wants to bring me to completion. I feel my inner muscles tighten, pulse, and the moan that spills from my lips is a shaky one, my body shuddering through the buzzing, orgasmic wave. But she isn't satisfied. It isn't enough for her.

Determination mingles with lusty desire in that hazel gaze of hers and as I try to blink the pleasurable haze from my own eyes, I realize all too late that Granger is on a mission. The mission being to fuck me within an inch of my life. And I have all but declared open season for the little huntress.

"Oh _fuck_ ," I gasp as her mouth descends on my sensitive clit. With her hands now free, she grabs both my breasts, her thumbs lightly flicking the nipples. I buck upward to meet her lips, my body now completely ignoring my plans to keep calm. The sight of her, between my legs, her eyes boring into mine as she licks and suckles, her purring moans of appreciation muffled, the lewd sounds her mouth is making as she devours me, it is all too much.

My voice has risen in pitch, these throaty groans, desperate gasps that sound utterly foreign to my ears are being wrenched out of me by this witch. How is she doing this? Where the bloody hell did she learn this? But even those unasked questions are a jumbled puzzle rattling about my head. It is chore to put together a string of coherent thought or words. I don't even wish to try. Not when breathy utterances of 'yes, yes, yes' are far easier to articulate.

This climax is more violent than the first, all consuming. My sharp cry of rapture that rents the air startles me just as much as the way my body quakes beneath her. And her hands are still stroking me, having moved from my breasts, they trail over the skin of my midsection, the lines of my ribs, down to my hips as she presses wet kisses against the insides of my thighs. As if she is trying to settle me, subdue, somehow ease the havoc she just wrought.

In my dizzied state, my vision doubled and blurred, my heart galloping within my chest, I feel her probe at my entrance, teasing strokes that make me want to snap my legs closed and part them wider in equal measure. One finger penetrates me, all that wetness making it a smooth motion that would hardly even register if not for the way my nerve endings have been blown apart not once but twice, and I mewl piteously when she adds a second finger. Oh Salazar, this girl, she is shattering me. Breaking me into pieces as she gently thrusts into me, stroking my walls, kissing my inner thighs, tracing nonsense patterns onto my skin. A third finger joins the first two, stretching me, filling me, her thumb just brushing my throbbing clit and the sounds I make are akin to sobs, breathless, heaving, broken moans filled with so much pleasure they sound like pain.

I can feel her wetness and warmth on my thigh as she rocks firmly against me, mimicking her thrusting fingers with her hips and her gasps mingle with my cries. The closer she gets to her own climax, the more frenzied she becomes, rutting against my leg, her head thrown back, her lips parted in a perfect 'o' shape, but her eyes are on me, her attention is diverted to me and seeking out the spongy tissue deep within me with those talented fingers of hers. Liquid fire courses through my veins when she finds that special spot at last, twisting her wrist just so, digits curving upward as if she is beckoning to my soul, coaxing it out of me to take a tumble into this dark, carnal abyss.

"You're killing me," I whimper, for she's dragged it out of me at last, my body now trying to twist away, to recoil, suddenly terrified of the plunge. I feel trapped now, ensnared in her thrall. I want to flee but she is dragging me, pulling me towards the edge and I can't get away no matter how hard I kick, fight, scream, and struggle, "You're killing me."

"Shh," she murmurs, cupping my cheek with her free hand, "Let go. I've got you."

This third orgasm is like a storm; a vicious clap of thunder, scorching forks of lightning, a gushing torrential downpour soaking her hand, my primal howl of release, the gale force winds. I have lost complete control of my body, it has been rendered a useless mass of convulsing muscles and flopping limbs. My vocal chords are shredded, my eyes unseeing. The only thing I can hear is the throbbing beat of my heart which is the only indication that I haven't perished in the destructive tidal force of that cyclonic climax.

"Hermione," I croak, instantly aware that this is the first time I've addressed her by name but unable to even dwell on that fact when there is a much greater issue, "I can't move."

As if I weigh hardly more than a Cornish pixie, she pulls me farther up onto the bed, positioning me in what she assumes is comfortably. My teeth are chattering noisily like I've been caught in the cold rather than just had the best sex of my life. My body, trembling like a leaf in autumn. I'm sure I look positively dreadful but that is what happens, I suppose when you've been turned inside out

I feel the bed dip and I see a flurry of movement in my periphery. It seems that the lion has gone and the lamb is back, hurrying now to make her escape before I've properly recovered. No, no, we'll have none of that. She is not allowed to leave, not after what she has reduced me to.

I reach for her, my arm limp and heavy. My fingers brush hers and she takes my hand. Hard to believe with this small, smooth palmed appendage can do. I give her a half hearted tug forward.

"Stay."

She smiles down at me, that same bright, genuinely happy grin of hers and tucks herself right up beside me on the bed.

She wraps her arms around me, her nose buried in my hair, a contented sigh making her chest rise and fall against my back. I nestle into her. Skin to skin, the lightest layer of perspiration making it a damp warmth. The heady scent of sex, peaches, and spices thick in the air. The pinkening of the sky and the sun's slow path towards descent visible from my window belies just how long Granger and I have been locked together in my room. For some completely idiotic reason, the hot prickle of tears makes me blink my eyes.

"Thank you, Bella," she whispers and it is almost inaudible but I hear it nonethless. I know exactly what she is thanking me for. But I don't know why she thanks me. I don't want her to thank me.

Not when I have to make her hate me by the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

_**The Beginning** _

**V**

I do not return to Morsmordre for two weeks. It is the longest I've ever spent away from the dueling hall and my absense surely goes noticed. But I can not bring myself to care. I send Barty a note by owl post to inform my four that I will be out for awhile. I give them no explanation. As the owner, I don't exactly need to, and even if I did, I haven't one. What the hell am I supposed to say? Oh sorry loves, Bella can't come in because she's gotten the best fuck of her life from that married mother of two she's been becoming obsessed with, and needs some time to recuperate? Not bleeding likely. So with just the succinct note, I leave my business in their more than capable hands for the next fourteen days.

I do not have the words to describe how I feel following the night I spent with Granger. There are far too many mixed feelings, emotions prowling unleashed within me to put into words. So I put them into spells instead. One of the estate's spare bed chambers was converted to a training room years ago. After the first three days alone with my feelings, I had reduced the room to smoke, charred wooden dummies, and rubble. My fury is boundless as I raze the room. It is enchanted to keep whatever I cast contained. If I had been a tad bit calmer I might have silently thanked myself for being so practical with its design. But at present, practicality is not my mind's priority when I set the drapery on fire with a bellowed ' _Incedio_ ' , as I blast craters into the walls with indiscriminate Reductor Curses, while I cackle madly as shredded wallpaper and shards of shattered glass falls like snowflakes around me.

Still, it does nothing to improve my mood. It can't when everything that meets its demise at the tip of my wand makes me think of her. That girl. That fucking _Mudblood_. It's been quite a while since that particular slur has so much as fallen from my lips let alone breached my thoughts, but in my ire it comes shamelessly unbidden.

I'd have never thought I had it in me, to run away from my issues. Cowardice has never been in my nature. But that is what I am. A coward. I allowed myself to let go, and now I'm paying the price. Self loathing has always been a part of me. Oh, no matter how confident a demeanor I portray, no matter how haughty, arrogant, superior I carry myself, deep down, deep deep down lies that young girl who bore the brunt of her father's rage to protect her sisters. That adolescent who made it her mission to out do every other student in her year at Hogwarts, who used charisma and force to make whomever she pleased bend to her will lest they discover that she was as fragile as glass. The young woman who allowed herself to be sold to the highest bidder like prized cattle. What I am is bruised and damaged, concealed beneath a wall of thorns and stinging nettles. And I let her in. I let her see me in a way that few have.

I do not know what to make of it. Why? Why her? What makes her so special? She's married. Unhappily so, but still legally bound. She has children. Two, whom she loves unconditionally. There is no room in her heart for me. And why should I give a damn if there is or not? I do not let people in, I never have. But I am brilliant at casting people out. I've done it to my sister. My parents. My husband. Alecto. Barty. Countless others. I allowed this witch in. I allowed her to rip me open and expose all there is to Bellatrix Black Lestrange. I let her hold me as I slept, her body warm and pliant against mine. Her arms keeping me together even as I felt as if I had shattered. So strong, she kept me from breaking into a thousand pieces.

She has torn me asunder, Granger has, and she doesn't even know it. It doesn't matter how many rooms I tear apart. She has left her mark, seared it into my flesh with her touch. So gentle she was with my body, and yet she set me ablaze. I burned for her and begged for more. I let her take something that I withheld from everyone else and now I want it back. I feel robbed, robbed of everything I am and ever was and I want to blame her, but I cannot.

By the end of the first week I learn that I cannot take solace in my beloved Firewhiskey. The absinthe is worse. With each drop of green I feel her hands against my skin, I remember how it felt to break beneath her, for my very soul to leave my body with each clenching muscle, with each pulsing climax. Salazar help me. I cried. In her arms, I shed tears. Bitter tears that I had refused to shed for over twenty years. She caught them then, soothing away decades of hurt in that warm, motherly way of hers that I could never possess. With her quiet, lullaby like hushing tones and hands that were as chaste as they were carnal, she whispered things in my ear that does nothing now but make me hate her as much as I loved her in those forbidden moments. After each sip, I can hear them. Even as the liquor scorches my throat and ravages my innards like Fiendfyre.

Dangerous. She is dangerous. Dangerous in the same way that I am dangerous and yet still different. I knew that from the beginning. Her danger is that she doesn't know how deadly she can be. Hermione. As intelligent as she is, she doesn't know. I can't hate her for that, but I want to. So much. I want to despise her for who she is, what she is, what I've allowed her to do to me What I want her to do to me still when I lie awake at night, when my own hand can't accomplish, can't quite tread the road she's mapped out.

I don't see much of Rod. He knows very well to stay out of my way when I'm in such a state. The house elves try to appease me by preparing my favorite foods. Unfortunately the sumptious meals aren't enough to satisfy my appetite. No, I'm craving a very different sort of satiation and the lust of my desires is driving me mad.

I should not want her this badly. I should not be thinking of her. I should not be wondering whether she is missing me, whether she went to the dueling hall looking for me. Whether or not she was disappointed by my absense. It should not give me a dark and twisted victorious feeling of glee to wonder whether her husband could smell me on her when she went home to him that night. Or if she had neglected to conceal the evidence of the vengeance I extracted on her body. Merlin, her cries of passion had been like a discordant symphony, desperate and broken, sweet blasphemy as she sang praises in my name. ' _Oh my god, Bella_! _' 'Oh please, please don't stop!' 'Oh, Bella, oh oh!'_ she had said. I shouldn't wonder if her husband ever managed to wrench those sounds from her throat, if he even knew how heartbreakingly beautiful his wife looked when she fell apart.

Probably not.

The days pass painfully slow once the anger tapers off. And by the twelfth day, the madness of cabin fever has replaced the tumultuous feelings that plagued me since that night. I put my tantrum room back to rights. My appetite returns. The Blishen's no longer betrays me. I know it's time to return to my life. Put my mask back on, rebuild my facade. Idiotic infatuations be damned.

My impromptu holiday comes to end on a damp Thursday morning. I arrive in the Alley to open Morsmordre, relieved to see it still standing. I have faith in my four, I've trained them well enough. Nothing is out of place. It smells the same, comforting, feels like home.

"Well well well, look what the cat dragged in," Barty's teasing baritone announces his arrival and I send an amused smirk his way. "Good to have you back, Trixie."

The other's welcomes are just as warm. We are all rather like a family and though no one explicitly asks what kept me away, they express their delight at my return in a variety of ways.

As the hours pass, I busy myself with two week old paperwork, updating files. I attend several sparring matches, and rather enthusiastically engage both Dolohov and Barty in a duel. It feels so good to be back and not once, not a single time do my thoughts venture to warm hazel eyes and tender touches. I do not allow them to.

I'm alone now, at the end of the day. Everyone's left, even Alecto though she was none to pleased to not have been able to offer herself to me in full welcome back fashion. But I don't need her right now. Hell, if I'm being honest, I doubt I will ever need her again. Something tells me it will never be the same between her and I. Fucking her wouldn't offer me the relief it once did. And perhaps she could sense it. Maybe. I'll never know as I don't plan on asking her if she has. I'm positive she'll get over it eventually.

Cleaning up the hall occupies enough of my time to momentarily distract me from what sounds like someone entering the premises. The sound of light, tentative footsteps however catches my attention and without even turning around, I bark out an authoritative, "We're closed. Come back tomorrow."

"Bella?"

My heart stalls in my chest and I think I forget to breathe. Her voice easily reaches my ears though she's hardly spoke above a whisper. My hand tightens around my wand and I slowly turn to face her. I should have known.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Why is she here? She can't be here. I'm not ready for her to be here right now. Not prepared in the slightest for her unexpected presence. But my heart, it's remembered to beat and is pounding steadily, throbbing almost painfully, and my stomach is doing that annoying flutter thing. Its after midnight and she is standing there, not quite close enough to touch, something that could easily be remedied by a couple short strides. Her hair unbound, the tresses quite tamed when last time I saw her they were far from it. She's wearing what Muggles call jeans, and a knit jumper. Her brows are furrowed slightly and her eyes, they hold my gaze, conveying so many things that I do not want to see. Confusion. Hurt. Nervousness. Determination. The hint of a challenge.

"I missed you," she says at last, the three words heavily weighted and my body recoils as if they've somehow struck me, "You missed our last two sessions."

Our sessions. Is she really that daft to believe that after what's happened between us I would continue to train with her?

"You need to leave." The statement is uttered harsher than I mean it to be and it is her turn to look as if I had slapped her.

"But I thought -"

My sharp, mocking laughter cuts her off before she can properly get her sentence out. "What did you think, Granger?" My voice is pitched high, child like, my lips curled into a sneer of all the disgust I could dredge up, "What, you thought we had something between us? That I would help you scratch that seven year itch? Be your mistress? Is that what you thought, girl?"

Like a dagger, each word is bladed with intent to stab, slash, to wound. And they hit their target with deadly precision. But the affect is not what is desired. Instead of shame, tears, I see anger, frustration, her hazel eyes beginning to smoke and smolder. I'd meant to cut her down, instead I've ignited her.

"That is exactly what I thought," she retorts scathingly, so acerbic is her tone it actually gives me pause, "You know I want you. I know you want me. And what we have."

"We have nothing. We will never have anything. Now leave. Go back to your husband."

"No."

I aim my wand at her, all but seeing red at this point. Who the bloody hell does she think she is? I don't allow my outrage to show on my face, effortlessly schooling my features into cool, haughty blankness as I walk slowly towards her.

"Now, pet, we can do this the easy way," I tilt my head to one side, my mouth settling into its characteristic patronizing pout, "Or the even easier way." I don't care if I have to hex her into a catatonic state. I simply cannot bear the sight of her. Nor the affect she has on me. The way she makes me feel. The things I want to do to her. The things I want her to do to me.

"I came to duel."

Disbelief does not even begin to describe what I feel now. "What?" Perhaps I had not heard her correctly.

As if emboldened by my shock, she crosses the distance between us, her own wand now in hand. "I want to duel. With you."

I think I may have been called crazy my entire life, but this girl, she has to be barking mad. What does she wish to prove? She cannot win. I know it, she knows it. Is she aroused by pain and humiliation? She certainly does have masochistic tendencies in bed, I discovered that. Is she merely playing foolish? Does she honestly believe she can best me?

My nostrils flare as I exhale sharply, glaring at her as I twirl my wand between my fingers. I know I should not even indulge. I don't want to play her game anymore. But she isn't going to back down. I can tell in her stance, in her face, I can tell by the way she meets my glare with an unflinching one of her own. No, the little lioness' claws are out. If it's a duel she wants, it's a duel she'll get.

"What happens when I win," I drawl with an arch of my brow.

She lifts her chin, clearly miffed at the jibe. "If you win, you won't see me anymore. I won't come back."

I am loathe to admit that my heart clenches at the threat. As if the very thought of never seeing her again is a painful one. But I don't give her the satisfaction of letting her see that I'm bothered. No, I've given her enough already.

"Very well, let's get this over with then."

Granger rolls her eyes and shakes her head as if I'm being nothing more than a petulant child. "Don't you want to know what I get if I win?"

I snort at the very idea. She really does have balls, doesn't she? Gryffindors have always been the bane of my life.

"Tell me."

"If I win, I get you. And you, you get me."

"Oh?" I coo, quite unable to stop myself from reaching out and cupping her cheek with my hand. She leans into my touch, her eyes slipping shut, coral pink lips parting, releasing a soft sigh of contentment. My thumb brushes her mouth. So soft. "And what if I don't want you?"

Hazel eyes snap open and there it is, that blistering indignation. But it is only fleeting. She has the gall to smirk at me and presses a kiss to the pad of my finger. I almost moan. "Then I suppose you'll win, won't you?"

There are no more words then. Granger follows me to the largest part of the hall, the place we have been sparring for months. There is tension between us, heady and intense like the threat of lightning before a storm. Pride and ego and something so devastatingly sexual. I can feel her heated gaze on me, knowing that she now doesn't need her imagination to picture me without my dragon hide. It has already been imbedded in her memory. Perhaps the first spell I'll cast will be 'Obliviate'.

We stand in the very center of the hall, nothing but concrete stone beneath our feet as I put away the sparring mats. I turn to face her, my dark eyes narrowed, my expression shrewd, calculating. I can practically see her mind whirring, trying to suss out when I'm going to strike.

"This is to be a proper duel, isn't it?" I murmur, "It's customary to bow."

She hesitates and I chuckle softly. "What, do you not trust me?"

"Of course," she replies almost instantly.

"Silly girl."

I send a volley of spells her way, back to back. Part of me is rather proud upon seeing her deflect them, her Shield Charm having improved drastically since our sessions began. But its a silent Stinging Hex that manages to shatter the protective barrier, and hits her in the midsection. With sharp yelp of shock and pain, she doubles over and I seize the presented opportunity to hit her with another.

"You're making it too easy, pet," I chide, "I thought you wanted to win?"

" _Stupefy_!"

I deflect the bolt of orange red and retaliate with a Reductor Curse aimed at the floor beneath her feet. She all but dives out of the way as bits of mortar erupt from the hole I've made.

She catches me with a Hives Hex thay makes the skin on the left side of my neck break out in itchy red splotches that make me grit my teeth and growl from the overwhelming desire to lower my wand and scratch.

It's a battle of wills more than anything else. Of course I don't want to hurt her. But I will if it means I don't have to acknowledge the feelings I have for her. I don't never want to see her again. But it is something I am fully prepared to live with. Unhappiness I've lived through but I have never given my heart to another, let alone to someone who could never truly be mine.

I have her on the defense, firing hex after curse after jinx with no promise of respite. She is starting to fatigue, her hair beginning to frizz, her cheeks flushing. It would be wise for me to end it now. Squash any semblance of hope she might have. She cannot win this. There is too much at stake. Not just for me but for her too and I can't allow it.

Ruthless, downright venegeful I am as I engage, taking pleasure in her desperate attempts to deflect and defend herself. By now she knows she going to lose but she is too much a Gryffindor to concede defeat. She is going to go down, fighting until she can no longer and this infuriates me. It isn't as if I expect her to yield to me, no not at all. But with each spell I cast, anger pulses through my veins. Why is she fighting so hard? For me? Why does she want me so badly? Is her life just that miserable she wants to end it in one fell swoop? I cannot promise her anything. I do not have it in me. Is this girl worth all of these troublesome, unwanted feelings that have been running rampant within me all this time? What the hell can I give her?

With a snarl, I transfigure the tip of my wand into a black whip. It is a modified version of Carpe Retractum, and one of my favorite offensive spells for the sheer damage it can cause.

I crack the whip, menacingly, watching her attempt to limp out of range. But I'm much too quick for her. I catch her ankle and tug, bringing her sprawling to the ruined floor.

"Stay. Down." I hiss, utterly and completely through. I haven't taken her wand but it is crystal clear that am this duel's victor.

I watch her use her hands to attempt to push herself up, unwavering determination mixes with tears in her eyes. But they are not tears of defeat or sadness. I can't tell what they are but they are like a strike to the very center if my chest. This girl, she makes me weak.

With another flick of my wrist, the whip wraps around her neck and I pull tightly, watching her face go puce, watching her struggle to breathe, fingers grabbing at the noose.

"I said stay down."

I release her and she sputters, coughs, taking in greedy pulls of air into her lungs. Salazar, it's a pathetic sight and makes my heart throb. Why am I doing this to her? No, no I want to stop this. I am not supposed to want to but I do. I can't want to. But I do. Damn. My head feels as if its splitting in two. Why is she still trying to stand?

"Hermione!" Is that my voice? That piteous pleading tone, thick with unshed tears, desperate. Beseeching. I am begging her. "Stay the _fuck_ down!"

"Bella," that honeyed voice of hers gone raspy and hoarse, breathless as she emphatically shakes her head, "I can't."

Two words. How can two words cut so deeply? How can they cause so much destruction? Because that is what I feel inside. I feel as if everything within me, built up over the past half century has imploded. Every wall constructed, collapses. I drop my wand. Somewhere in the recesses of my subconcious I think I might have heard it hit the floor with a clatter. But the sound of my voice, sobbing, laughing, I cannot quite tell, drowns it out. I'm straddling her, not even sure when I approached her, maybe I Apparated. She is crying freely now and my lips, my lips are catching her salty tears. Her hands are in my hair, gently twisting, locking around my curls, coaxing me to where she needs me to be.

The kiss is bruising and yet soft, a dance of lips and teeth and tongue, of concession, of confusion, of desire, of doom. Of meaningless promises, an insecure future. But in that moment neither of us could give less of a damn.

She is panting, completely out of breath once I pull away from her just enough to stare down into her eyes. I was right when I said this devil would drag me straight to hell. The flames are scorching but I don't mind the burn.

"I want your weekends," I whisper, but it isn't a request. It's a demand. And the way her eyes widen ever so slightly, she can hear it, she understands. "On the weekend, you belong to me."

"Yes," the breathy response is laced with steel. As she kisses me again, I hope it will be enough. But even as I hold to this fragile hope, something deep within me, something that in that moment while her lips are peppering my cheeks with her sweet kisses, her warm breath ghosting over the line of my jaw, the shell of my ear, her body pinned beneath mine on the cold stone floor of my dueling hall, I know it won't be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends part two of The Weekend series, The Beginning. Thank you so much for reading. The final part, sequel, The Aftermath will be published soon!
> 
> -bellanoire, over and out!


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